Bliss
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Mark reflects on what it would be like if Addison let him love her. Season 2 fic. Mark/Addison


He finds her crying in an on-call room, again, and for the fifteenth time, questions her apparent masochism. Why anyone would decide to fly out two thousand miles to get continually frozen, snubbed, and hurt by the man who really deserves to be called her ex-husband is completely beyond him, and would be beyond most men.

That is, if they didn't know Addison.

Like a flame – she's like a fire, she never quits. Hot and impulsive and burning up every step she takes, she just never gives up. And the masochistic waiting, although it seems stupid to him, is almost like a drug to her. It's like she thrives on the pain. It hones her, like a knife; it strips layers away and then she comes up pure and hard, like a diamond that for years has been under pressure to shine.

Addison shines. She's just like that.

She's also fucking annoying and extremely hard to understand. He considers himself rather stupid, as well; after all, she may have flown two thousand miles, but he followed her, leaving the comfortable brownstone with the bike in the basement and a buried Yankee onesie in a box in the attic to hole up in an expensive hotel, which may have room service, but doesn't have her, and her smile, and her famous Alfredo pasta.

Damn, could he go for some of that pasta now. But angsty Addison won't cook, more's the pity.

In all seriousness, he's concerned. He hasn't seen this many tears from this woman since they knew each other as children and she broke her arm falling off the rocks by the lake. He hasn't seen her this beaten-down, well, ever. And sometimes, while he forgets the exact reason he decided to take an unexplained leave of absence from his fairly-successful practice and follow a woman out west, he knows in his heart that she's stronger when he's here.

That's the way they've always been. Oil and water and fighting constantly, but taking from each other's strength the best they can.

Now, in the on-call room, she's slumped on the pillow, her red hair spreading and catching the weak afternoon light that's managed to filter through the rain. Seriously, this place is hell. He's got a cold 24/7, though she almost seems to be thriving in it – her skin glows in the softer air.

"Addison. Stop this."

Poking the flames is never a good idea with Addison, but he can take it. The fact is, he can take anything she throws at him – if she would just relax and let him love her.

This time, she tosses the wet pillow at his head. He easily catches it in his left hand.

"Fuck off, Mark."

"I could go on about how stupid you are, since this is about the fifth time I've found you like this in a week, but I imagine it's not going to go over well, nor are you going to listen. So how about you tell me what he said, I'll go punch him again, and we can get out of this godforsaken hellhole and go home?"

She sits up, tendrils of hair sticking to her wet face, eyes angry and luminous and teary, all at once. "Because going home doesn't hold any attraction for me. I hate our life there, and I hate our life here."

She's saying it to hurt him, but he puts on a brave face, anyway. "Fine, so you hate it. So we'll move somewhere nice. Where it rarely rains. And never snows."

"Why don't you GET it?" She throws out a fist at him, but he's out of her reach, so the shot falls flat onto the covers. "I'm not happy, okay. I'm not happy."

And with that, she bursts into tears – not sad ones, or hurt ones, but desperate ones.

This could go two ways: he could take her in his arms, comfort her a little, have sex and she'll be okay for another couple hours, at least until it's time to break out the wine.

Or, he could take her in his arms, hold onto her tightly, and try to hold her pain himself.

He chooses the latter this time. She sobs against his shoulder, clings to him tightly, and he takes it all, until he moves her back and asks in a near-whisper,

"If you're not happy, then why are you here? Why are you fighting for him? Because he's done. He's done and I'm amazed that it's taken you this long to admit that you're done, too."

She sniffles, rubs a hand across her eyes, pouts that sweet duck-like pout and he kisses her, just because he loves her through it all – loves her through the tears, through the rages, through the impulse shopping and dirty dishes.

What hurts is that she doesn't love him – because she's too busy trying to figure herself out.

"Let's go home," he whispers in her ear, hoping just once, she'll break – she'll look at him as something other than a warm body in her bed at night, maybe realize that he's got layers, too, and isn't all playboy and uncaring.

The moment hangs, and she raises her eyes to his – he almost thinks she'll say yes, in his arms, his support all around her.

But she shakes her head. "No. I need to be here. I need to explain, if Derek ever gives me a chance. And anyway, Mark, we all know what will happen. More of the same shit, and I just can't take another decision like I had to make four months ago. You don't want me, anyway. You just want me home so that Derek can't get me."

It cuts – she knows how to hurt you, and it would be satisfying, just once, to show her exactly how much it kills you when she acts like such a cold bitch.

Instead, you smile slightly, tighten your arms around her, and whisper, "You'll change your mind." Your voice is teasing, and you actually solicit a smile out of her.

In your heart, you hope against hope that your prediction will come true.


End file.
